THE RETURN OF BATTLING BILLSON
It was a most moment, one of those moments which plant lines on the and turn the a at the temples. I looked at the barman. The looked at me. The assembled company looked at us impartially.
“Ho!” said the barman.
I am very quick. I see at once that he was not in with me. He was a large, man, and his as it met mine the that he me as a come true. His slightly, a gold tooth; and the of his arms, which were as iron bands, a little.
“Ho!” he said.
The which had me into my present painful position were as follows. In those for the popular which at that time were so many so much regret, I was accustomed, like one of my brother-authors, to take all for my province. Thus, one day I would be with in their castles, the next I would turn right and start the tenth in their slums. Versatile. At the moment I to be upon a little thing about a girl called Liz, who in a fried-fish shop in the Ratcliff Highway, and I had gone there to local colour. For Posterity may say of James Corcoran, it can say that he from where his Art was concerned.
The Ratcliff Highway is an thoroughfare, but on a warm day it thirst. After about for an hour or so, therefore, I entered the Prince of Wales public-house, called for a of beer, it at a draught, in my pocket for coin, and emptiness. I was in a position to add to my notes on the East End of London one to the that pocket-pickery there as a art.
“I’m sorry,” I said, an and to put a into my voice. “I I’ve got no money.”
It was at this point that the said “Ho!” and moved out into the open through a door in the counter.
“I think my pocket must have been picked,” I said.
“Oh, do you?” said the barman.
He gave me the idea of being a man. Years of with citizens who to drinks for nothing had him of that fresh with which he had started out on his career of barmanship.
“I had my name and address,” I suggested.
“Who,” the barman, coldly, “wants your name and address?”
These practical men go to the of a thing. He had put his on the very of the matter. Who did want my name and address? No one.
“I will send——” I was proceeding, when to suddenly. An expert hand me by the of the neck, another closed upon the seat of my trousers, there was a of air, and I was across the in the direction of a wet and gutter. The barman, against the dirty white of the public-house, me grimly.
I think that, if he had himself to looks—however offensive—I would have gone no into the matter. After all, the man had right on his side. How he be to see into my and note its purity? But, as I myself up, he not the to the occasion.
“That’s what comes of tryin’ to drinks,” he said, with what to me priggishness.
Those me to the quick. I with wrath. I myself on that barman. The of such a Colossus to me. I that he put me out of action with one hand.
A moment later, however, he had me of this fact. Even as I my an came from and into the of my head. I sat again.
“’Ullo!”
I was aware, dimly, that someone was speaking to me, someone who was not the barman. That had already me as a and returned to his professional duties. I looked up and got a of of and serge, and then I was to my feet.
My had to clear now, and I was able to look more at my sympathiser. And, as I looked, the came to me that I had him somewhere. That red hair, those eyes, that bulk—it was my old friend Wilberforce Billson and no other—Battling Billson, the champion, I had last at Wonderland under the personal management of Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge.
“Did ’e ’it yer?” Mr. Billson.
There was only one answer to this. Disordered though my were, I was clear upon this point. I said, “Yes, he did me.”
“’R!” said Mr. Billson, and passed into the hostelry.
It was not at once that I the of this move. The I upon his was that, having of my society, he had to go and have some refreshment. Only when the of voices from came through the door did I to that in to it such I might have that nature. With the of the barman—who out as if by some and did a of fox-trot across the pavement—suspicion certainty.
The barman, as a man his in the Ratcliff Highway, was of stuff. He was no poltroon. As soon as he had managed to stop himself from pirouetting, he at his right cheek-bone in a manner, for a moment, and then into the bar. And it was after the door had to again him that the may have been said to have begun.
What was going on that I was still too to go and see. It like an earthquake, and no at that. All the in the world to be simultaneously, the populations of were in unison, and I almost that I saw the of the shake and heave. And then somebody a police-whistle.
There is a magic about the of a police-whistle. It like oil on the most waters. This one about an in the tumult. Glasses to break, voices were hushed, and a moment later out came Mr. Billson, not upon the order of his going. His nose was a little and there was the of a black on his face, but otherwise there nothing much the with him. He a look up and the and for the nearest corner. And I, off the after-effects of my with the barman, in his wake. I was with and admiration. I wanted to catch this man up and thank him formally. I wanted to him of my esteem. Moreover, I wanted to borrow from him. The that he was the only man in the whole wide East End of London who was likely to me the money to save me having to walk to Ebury Street gave me a of speed.
It was not easy to overtake him, for the of my to Mr. Billson that the was up, and he good going. Eventually, however, when in to I to a “Mr. Billson! I say, Mr. Billson!” at every second stride, he to that he was among friends.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said, halting.
He was relieved. He produced a pipe and it. I delivered my speech of thanks. Having me out, he his pipe and put into a the of the whole affair.
“Nobody don’t no of mine not when I’m around,” said Mr. Billson.
“It was good of you to trouble,” I said with feeling.
“No trouble,” said Mr. Billson.
“You must have that hard. He came out at about miles an hour.”
“I him,” Mr. Billson.
“I’m he has your eye,” I said, sympathetically.
“Him!” said Mr. Billson, with scorn. “That wasn’t him. That was his pals. Six or seven of ’em there was.”
“And did you them too?” I cried, at the of this wonder-man.
“’R!” said Mr. Billson. He awhile. “But I ’im most,” he proceeded. He looked at me with warmth, his to its depths. “The idea,” he said, disgustedly, “of a —— —— ’is size”—he the and, as as I judge after so an acquaintanceship, accurately—“goin’ and dottin’ a little —— —— like you!”
The was so that I not take to its phraseology. Nor did I at being called “little.” To a man of Mr. Billson’s I most people looked little.
“Well, I’m very much obliged,” I said.
Mr. Billson in silence.
“Have you been long?” I asked, for something to say. Outstanding as were his other merits, he was not good at a alive.
“Back?” said Mr. Billson.
“Back in London. Ukridge told me that you had gone to sea again.”
“Say, mister,” Mr. Billson, for the time to in my remarks, “you ’im lately?”
“Ukridge? Oh, yes, I see him nearly every day.”
“I been tryin’ to ’im.”
“I can give you his address,” I said. And I it on the of an envelope. Then, having his hand, I thanked him once more for his and my to Civilisation on the Underground, and we with of good will.
The next step in the of events was what I shall call the Episode of the Inexplicable Female. It two days later. Returning after to my rooms in Ebury Street, I was met in the by Mrs. Bowles, my landlord’s wife. I her a nervously, for, like her husband, she always a on me. She Bowles’s dignity, but up for it by a manner so that men her gaze. Scotch by birth, she had an that looked as if it was for for in winding-sheets—this, I believe, being a sport among sets in North Britain.
“Sir,” said Mrs. Bowles, “there is a in your sitting-room.”
“A body!” I am to say that this Phillips-Oppenheim-like opening to the gave me something of a shock. Then I her nationality. “Oh, you a man?”
“A woman,” Mrs. Bowles. “A in a pink hat.”
I was of a of guilt. In this pure and house, female in pink to explanation. I that the thing to do would have been to call upon Heaven to that this woman was nothing to me, nothing.
“I was to give you this letter, sir.”
I took it and opened the with a sigh. I had the of Ukridge, and for the hundredth time in our close there me like a the sad that this man had once more gone and upon me some thing.
“My dear old Horse,—
“It’s not often I ask you to do anything for me...
I laughed hollowly.
“My dear old Horse,—
“It’s not often I ask you to do anything for me, laddie, but I and you to now and the true friend I know you are. The one thing I’ve always said about you, Corky my boy, is that you’re a who lets a down.
“The of this—a woman, you’ll like her—is Flossie’s mother. She’s up for the day by from the North, and it is that she be up and off at Euston at six-forty-five. I can’t look after her myself, as I’m up with a ankle. Otherwise I wouldn’t trouble you.
“This is a life and death matter, old man, and I’m on you. I can’t possibly tell you how it is that this old bird should be entertained. The on it. So on your and go to it, laddie, and will you. Tell you all the when we meet.
“Yours ever,
“S. F. Ukridge.
“P.S.—I will all later.”
Those last did a faint, from me, but from them this document to me to be free from relief. I looked at my watch and that it was two-thirty. This female, therefore, was on my hands for a solid four hours and a quarter. I maledictions—futile, of course, for it was a of the Ukridge on these occasions that, unless one were strong-minded to his (a thing which was nearly always me), he gave one no of escape. He his on one at the very last moment, no opportunity for a refusal.
I slowly up the stairs to my sitting-room. It would have been a advantage, I felt, if I had who on earth this Flossie was of he with such familiarity. The name, though Ukridge it to touch a in me, left me unresponsive. As as I was aware, there was no Flossie of any in my life. I through the years. Long-forgotten Janes and Kates and Muriels and Elizabeths rose from the of my memory as I it, but no Flossie. It to me as I opened the door that, if Ukridge was of Flossie to a me and her mother, he was on soil.
The I got on entering the room was that Mrs. Bowles the true reporter’s gift for out the detail that mattered. One have said many about Flossie’s mother, as, for instance, that she was stout, cheerful, and more than a doctor would have judicious; but what out above all the others was the that she was a pink hat. It was the largest, gayest, most of head-wear that I had seen, and the of four hours and a in its added the last touch to my already gloom. The only of that my was the that, if we to a picture-palace, she would have to remove it.
“Er—how do you do?” I said, in the doorway.
“’Ow do you do?” said a voice from under the hat. “Say ‘’Ow-do-you-do?’ to the gentleman, Cecil.”
I a small, boy by the window. Ukridge, with the true artist’s that the of all successful is the knowledge of what to omit, had not mentioned him in his letter; and, as he to go through the necessary civilities, it to me that the was more than I bear. He was a rat-faced, sinister-looking boy, and he at me with a which me of the at the Prince of Wales public-house in Ratcliff Highway.
“I Cecil along,” said Flossie’s (and Cecil’s) mother, after the stripling, having a greeting, with the that it him to nothing, had returned to the window, “because I it would be for ’im to say he had London.”
“Quite, quite,” I replied, while Cecil, at the window, out at London as if he did not think much of it.
“Mr. Ukridge said you would us round.”
“Delighted, delighted,” I quavered, looking at the and looking away again. “I think we had go to a picture-palace, don’t you?”
“Naw!” said Cecil. And there was that in his manner which that when he said “Naw!” it was final.
“Cecil wants to see the sights,” his mother. “We can see all the pictures at home. ’E’s been lookin’ to seein’ the of London. It’ll be an education for ’im, like, to see all the sights.”
“Westminster Abbey?” I suggested. After all, what be for the lad’s mind than to the of the great past and, if disposed, out a site for his own at some later date? Also, I had a notion, which a moment’s it me much comfort, that their in Westminster Abbey.
“Naw!” said Cecil.
“’E wants to see the murders,” Flossie’s mother.
She spoke as if it were the most of desires, but it to me impracticable. Homicides do not of their activities. I had no what were for to-day.
“’E always reads up all the in the Sunday paper,” on the parent, light on the matter.
“Oh, I understand,” I said. “Then Madame Tussaud’s is the spot he wants. They’ve got all the murderers.”
“Naw!” said Cecil.
“It’s the places ’e wants to see,” said Flossie’s mother, of my density. “The places where all them was committed. ’E’s out the and ’e wants to be able to tell ’is friends when he that ’e’s ’em.”
A over me.
“Why, we can do the whole thing in a cab,” I cried. “We can in a from start to finish. No need to the at all.”
“Or a bus?”
“Not a bus,” I said firmly. I was on a cab—one with that would down, if possible.
“’Ave it your own way,” said Flossie’s mother, agreeably. “Speaking as as I’m personally concerned, I’m there’s nothing I would than a in a keb. Jear what the says, Cecil? You’re goin’ to in a keb.”
“Urgh!” said Cecil, as if he would it when he saw it. A boy.
It was not an to which I look as among the I have spent. For one thing, the my in the of expense. Why it should be so I cannot say, but all the best appear to take place in like Stepney and Canning Town, and cab-fares to these places into money. Then, again, Cecil’s was not one of those which more with familiarity. I should say at a that those who liked him best were those who saw the least of him. And, finally, there was a about the entire which soon to my nerves. The would up some house in some miles from civilisation, Cecil would his out of the window and drink the place in for a moments of ecstasy, and then he would deliver his lecture. He had read well and thoughtfully. He had all the information.
“The Canning Town ’Orror,” he would announce.
“Yes, dearie?” His mother a at him and a proud one at me. “In this very ’ouse, was it?”
“In this very ’ouse,” said Cecil, with the of a about to on his subject. “Jimes Potter ’is was. ’E was at seven in the the ’is cut from ear to ear. It was the landlady’s done it. They ’anged ’im at Pentonville.”
Some more data from the child’s store, and then on to the next site.
“The Bing Street ’Orror!”
“In this very ’ouse, dearie?”
“In this very ’ouse. Body was in the in an of dee-cawm-po-sition its ’ead in, by some instrument.”
At six-forty-six, the pink which from the window of a third-class and the hand that a farewell, I from the train with a pale, set face, and, the of Euston Station, told a to take me with all speed to Ukridge’s in Arundel Street, Leicester Square. There had never, so as I knew, been a in Arundel Street, but I was of opinion that that time was ripe. Cecil’s and had done much to the of a upbringing, and I almost with the of him with an Arundel Street Horror for his next visit to the Metropolis.
“Aha, laddie,” said Ukridge, as I entered. “Come in, old horse. Glad to see you. Been when you would turn up.”
He was in bed, but that did not remove the which had been in me all the that he was a low malingerer. I to for a moment in that of his. My view was that he had had the of a look at Flossie’s mother and her child and had passed them on to me.
“I’ve been reading your book, old man,” said Ukridge, a with an carelessness. He the only I had written, and I can offer no proof of the black of my than the that this did not me. “It’s immense, laddie. No other word for it. Immense. Damme, I’ve been like a child.”
“It is to be a novel,” I pointed out, coldly.
“Crying with laughter,” Ukridge, hurriedly.
I him with loathing.
“Where do you keep your instruments?” I asked.
“My what?”
“Your instrument. I want a instrument. Give me a instrument. My God! Don’t tell me you have no instrument.”
“Only a safety-razor.”
I sat on the bed.
“Hi! Mind my ankle!”
“Your ankle!” I laughed a laugh, the of laugh the landlady’s might have operations on James Potter. “A there is the with your ankle.”
“Sprained it yesterday, old man. Nothing serious,” said Ukridge, reassuringly. “Just to me up for a of days.”
“Yes, till that female and her boy had got well away.”
Pained was all over Ukridge’s face.
“You don’t to say you didn’t like her? Why, I you two would be all over each other.”
“And I you that Cecil and I would be souls?”
“Cecil?” said Ukridge, doubtfully. “Well, to tell you the truth, old man, I’m not saying that Cecil doesn’t take a of knowing. He’s the of boy you have to be patient with and out, if you what I mean. I think he on you.”
“If he to on me, I’ll have him amputated.”
“Well, all that on one side,” said Ukridge, “how did go off?”
I the afternoon’s in a words.
“Well, I’m sorry, old horse,” said Ukridge, when I had finished. “I can’t say more than that, can I? I’m sorry. I give you my word I didn’t know what I was you in for. But it was a life and death matter. There was no other way out. Flossie on it. Wouldn’t an inch.”
In my I had all about the of Flossie.
“Who the is Flossie?” I asked.
“What! Flossie? You don’t know who Flossie is? My dear old man, yourself. You must Flossie. The at the Crown in Kennington. The girl Battling Billson is to. Surely you haven’t Flossie? Why, she was saying only yesterday that you had eyes.”
Memory awoke. I that I have a girl so and spectacular.
“Of course! The you with you that night George Tupper gave us dinner at the Regent Grill. By the way, has George you for that?”
“There is still a little coldness,” Ukridge, ruefully. “I’m to say old Tuppy to be the thing a bit. The of the is, old horse, Tuppy has his limitations. He isn’t a friend like you. Delightful fellow, but vision. Can’t that there are occasions when it is that a man’s him. Now you——”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I am that what I through this was for some good cause. I should be sorry, now that I am in a of mind, to have to you where you lie. Would you mind telling me what was the idea all this?”
“It’s like this, laddie. Good old Billson in to see me the other day.”
“I met him in the East End and he asked for your address.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“What’s going on? Are you still him?”
“Yes. That’s what he wanted to see me about. Apparently the has another year to and he can’t up anything without my O.K. And he’s just had an offer to a called Alf Todd at the Universal.”
“That’s a step up from Wonderland,” I said, for I had a solid respect for this Mecca of the world. “How much is he this time?”
“Two hundred quid.”
“Two hundred quid! But that’s a for an unknown man.”
“Unknown man?” said Ukridge, hurt. “What do you mean, unknown man? If you ask my opinion, I should say the whole world is with about old Billson. Literally seething. Didn’t he the champion?”
“Yes, in a rough-and-tumble in a alley. And nobody saw him do it.”
“Well, these about.”
“But two hundred pounds!”
“A fleabite, laddie, a fleabite. You can take it from me that we shall be a more than a of hundred for our services soon. Thousands, thousands! Still, I’m not saying it won’t be something to be going on with. Well, as I say, old Billson came to me and said he had had this offer, and how about it? And when I that I was in halves, I soon gave him my and told him to go as as he liked. So you can how I when Flossie put her like this.”
“Like what? About ten minutes ago when you started talking, you to be on the point of about Flossie. How she come to be mixed up with the thing? What did she do?”
“Only wanted to stop the whole business, laddie, that was all. Just put the on the entire works. Said he mustn’t fight!”
“Mustn’t fight?”
“That was what she said. Just in that airy, careless way, as if the most didn’t on his as he had before. Said—if you’ll me, laddie; I shan’t you if you don’t—that she didn’t want his looks spoiled.” Ukridge at me with while he let this of in. “His looks, old man! You got the word correctly? His looks! She didn’t want his looks spoiled. Why, damme, he hasn’t got any looks. There isn’t any possible manner in which you that man’s without it. I with her by the hour, but no, she couldn’t see it. Avoid women, laddie, they have no intelligence.”
“Well, I’ll promise to avoid Flossie’s mother, if that’ll satisfy you. How she come into the thing?”
“Now, there’s a woman in a million, my boy. She saved the situation. She came along at the hour and your old friend out of the soup. It she has a of up to London at intervals, and Flossie, while she loves and respects her, that from ten minutes to a of an hour of the old dear her the to such an that she’s a for days.”
I my warm to the Mrs. Billson. Despite Ukridge’s slurs, a girl, it to me, of the intelligence.
“So when Flossie told me—with in her eyes, girl—that mother was to-day, I had the of a lifetime. Said I would take her off her hands from start to if she would agree to let Billson at the Universal. Well, it you what family is, laddie; she jumped at it. I don’t mind telling you she and me on cheeks. The rest, old horse, you know.”
“Yes. The I do know.”
“Never,” said Ukridge, solemnly, “never, old son, till the of the cold, shall I how you have by me this day!”
“Oh, all right. I in about a week from now you will be landing me with something foul.”
“Now, laddie——”
“When this come off?”
“A week from to-night. I’m on you to be at my side. Tense strain, old man; shall want a to see me through.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. I’ll give you dinner we go there, shall I?”
“Spoken like a true friend,” said Ukridge, warmly. “And on the night I will you the of your life. A which will ring the ages. For, mark you, laddie, I shall be in funds. In funds, my boy.”
“Yes, if Billson wins. What he if he loses?”
“Loses? He won’t lose. How the can he lose? I’m at you talking in that way when you’ve him only a days ago. Didn’t he you as being fit when you saw him?”
“Yes, by Jove, he did.”
“Well, then! Why, it looks to me as if the sea air had him than ever. I’ve only just got my out after hands with him. He win the of the world to-morrow without taking his pipe out of his mouth. Alf Todd,” said Ukridge, to an of imagery, “has about as much as a one-armed man in a dark room trying to a of melted into a wildcat’s left ear with a red-hot needle.”
Although I of the members, for one or another I had been the Universal Sporting Club, and the of the place when we on the night of the me a good deal. It was different from Wonderland, the East End home of where I had the Battler make his début. There, a in the of had been the note; here, white shirt-fronts on every side. Wonderland, moreover, had been noisy. Patrons of sport had so themselves as to through their and at friends. At the Universal one might have been in church. In fact, the longer I sat, the more did the to become. When we arrived, two in the class were going through the under the of the minister, while a large looked on in silence. As we took our seats, this of the service came to an end and the that Nippy Coggs was the winner. A for an from the worshippers, Nippy Coggs into the vestry, and after a pause of a minutes I the familiar of Battling Billson up the aisle.
There was no about it, the Battler did look good. His more cable-like than ever, and a hair-cut had a knobby, to his which put him more definitely than in the class of those with the man would not quarrel. Mr. Todd, his antagonist, who him a moment later, was no beauty—the almost complete of any his and his would alone have him being that—but he a je-ne-sais-quoi which the Battler pre-eminently possessed. From the of his in the public our man was a warm favourite. There was a pleased in the as he took his seat, and I voices on him.
“Six-round bout,” the padre. “Battling Billson (Bermondsey) Alf Todd (Marylebone). Gentlemen will stop smoking.”
The their and the began.
Bearing in mind how Ukridge’s were up in his protégé’s success to-night, I was to that Mr. Todd opened the in a manner that to offer little scope for any of Battling Billson’s kind-heartedness. I had not how at Wonderland our Battler, with the in hand, had allowed victory to be from him purely through a for being with his adversary, a man who had had a of trouble and had touched Mr. Billson’s thereby. Such a was to to-night. It was difficult to see how anyone in the same ring with him possibly be sorry for Alf Todd. A was the last thing his was calculated to in the of an opponent. Directly the sounded, he away what little Nature had him his fringe, through his nose, and into the fray. He to no views as to which hand it was best to as a medium of attack. Right or left, it was all one to Alf. And if he not Mr. Billson with his hands, he was perfectly willing, so long as the of authority was not too vigilant, to him with his head. Broad-minded—that was Alf Todd.
Wilberforce Billson, of a hundred on a hundred water-fronts, was not in joining the revels. In him Mr. Todd a and a playmate. As Ukridge me in a while the was Alf for an where no should have been, this of thing was as meat and drink to Wilberforce. It was just the of he had been used to all his life, and the most calculated to make him give of his best—a which was a moment later, when, after some in which, though he was, he had more than he had bestowed, Mr. Todd was to and do a of side-stepping. The came to an end with the Battler leading on points, and so had it been that out in parts of the edifice.
The second the same lines as the first. The that up to now he had been in his to Battling Billson into his parts had had no on Alf Todd’s ardour. He was still the same active, soul, himself in his to make the party go. There was a in his which one of a short-tempered trying to at its keeper. Occasionally some on the part of his would him to retire into a clinch, but he always came out of it as as to the argument. Nevertheless, at the end of two he was still a behind. Round three added points to the Battler’s score, and at the end of four Alf Todd had so much ground that the most were to to their cash on his chances.
And then the began, and those who a minute had taken of three to one on the Battler and openly the money as good as in their pockets, in their seats or with and faces. A moments it had to them that this sure thing come unstitched. There was only this and the next to go—a six minutes of conflict; and Mr. Billson was so ahead on points that nothing but the accident of his being out him the decision. And you had only to look at Wilberforce Billson to the of his being out. Even I, who had him go through the at Wonderland, to the possibility. If there was a man in the pink, it was Wilberforce Billson.
But in there is always the thousandth chance. As he came out of his for five, it plain that were not well with our man. Some in that last of four must have a spot, for he was in shape. Incredible as it seemed, Battling Billson was groggy. He than stepped; he in a manner to his supporters; he was in the of Mr. Todd. Sibilant arose; Ukridge my arm in an grip; voices were to on Alf; and in the Battler’s corner, their through the ropes, those members of the minor who had been told off to second our man were with apprehension.
Mr. Todd, for his part, was a new man. He had retired to his at the end of the with the step of one who sees failure ahead. “I’m always rainbows,” Mr. Todd’s had to say as it rested on the floor. “Another shattered!” And he had come out for five with the of the man who has been helping to the at a children’s party and has had of it. Ordinary it necessary for him to see this through to the end, but his was no longer in it.
And then, of the and india-rubber who had him so at their last meeting, he this wreck. For an to Mr. Todd’s limbs, then he himself to the new conditions. It was as if somebody had monkey-glands on to Alfred Todd. He at Battling Billson, and Ukridge’s on my arm more painful than ever.
A upon the house. It was a tense, silence, for had a crisis. Against the near his the Battler was leaning, of the well-meant of his seconds, and Alf Todd, with his now almost his eyes, was for an opening. There is a in the of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; and Alf Todd this. He for an with his hands, as if he were trying to Mr. Billson, then forward.
A great up. The appeared to have all of what place this was that they were in. They were jumping up and in their seats and deplorably. For the had been averted. Somehow or other Wilberforce Billson had to from that corner, and now he was out in the middle of the ring, respited.
And yet he did not pleased. His was with pain and displeasure. For the time in the entire he appeared moved. Watching him closely, I see his moving, in prayer. And as Mr. Todd, from the ropes, upon him, he those lips. He them in a meaning way, and his right hand slowly his knee.
Alf Todd came on. He came and in the manner of one moving to a or festival. This was the end of a perfect day, and he it. He Battling Billson as if the had been a pot of beer. But for the that he came of a and race, he would have into song. He out his left and it on Mr. Billson’s nose. Nothing happened. He his right and it almost for a moment. It was this moment that Battling Billson came to life.
To Alf Todd it must have like a resurrection. For the last two minutes he had been in every way to science his that this man him no longer the of a punch, and the had proven up to the hilt. Yet here he was now like an whirlwind. A experience. The with the small of Alf Todd’s back. Something else with his chin. He to withdraw, but a took him on the odd which he was laughingly to call his ear. Another upon his jaw. And there the ended for Alf Todd.
“Battling Billson is the winner,” the vicar.
“Wow!” the congregation.
“Whew!” Ukridge in my ear.
It had been a near thing, but the old had through at the finish.
Ukridge off to the dressing-room to give his Battler a manager’s blessing; and presently, the next something of an anti-climax after all the of its predecessor, I left the and home. I was a last pipe going to when a ring at the front-door in on my meditations. It was by the voice of Ukridge in the hall.
I was a little surprised. I had not been to see Ukridge again to-night. His when we at the Universal had been to Mr. Billson with a of supper; and, as the Battler had a for the of the West End, this a to the East, where in the would drink a good of and eat more hard-boiled eggs than you would have possible. The that the was now up my stairs to that the had through. And the that the had through that something had gone wrong.
“Give me a drink, old horse,” said Ukridge, into the room.
“What on earth’s the matter?”
“Nothing, old horse, nothing. I’m a man, that’s all.”
He at the and which Bowles had upon the table. I him with concern. This be no ordinary that had him thus from the of who had left me at the Universal. A through my mind that Battling Billson must have been disqualified—to be rejected a moment later, when I that are not as an after-thought an hour after the fight. But what else have about this anguish? If there was an occasion for rejoicing, now would have to be the time.
“What’s the matter?” I asked again.
“Matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” Ukridge. He into his glass. He me of King Lear. “Do you know how much I out of that to-night? Ten quid! Just ten sovereigns! That’s what’s the matter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The was thirty pounds. Twenty for the winner. My is ten. Ten, I’ll trouble you! What in the name of is the good of ten quid?”
“But you said Billson told you——”
“Yes, I know I did. Two hundred was what he told me he was to get. And the weak-minded, furtive, under-handed son of Belial didn’t that he was to it for losing!”
“Losing?”
“Yes. He was to it for losing. Some who wanted a to do some him to sell the fight.”
“But he didn’t sell the fight.”
“I know that, dammit. That’s the whole trouble. And do you know why he didn’t? I’ll tell you. Just as he was all to let himself be out in that round, the other to on his toe-nail, and that him so that he about else and in and the out of him. I ask you, laddie! I to you as a man. Have you in your life of such a footling, idiotic, woollen-headed proceeding? Throwing away a fortune, an fortune, purely to a whim! Hurling away the of a on his toe-nail. His toe-nail!” Ukridge laughed raspingly. “What right has a to have an toe-nail? And if he has an toe-nail, surely—my gosh!—he can a little for a minute. The of the is, old horse, aren’t what they were. Degenerate, laddie, degenerate. No heart. No courage. No self-respect. No vision. The old has entirely.”
And with a Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge passed out into the night.
